


The Leeds Pit

by BadBadBucky



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/pseuds/BadBadBucky
Summary: Howard Moon is first trumpet in the orchestra affectionatley known as the Leeds Pit. Their numbers are dangerously low and so they have hired a style consultant, Vince Noir, to help their image and bolster attendance.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	The Leeds Pit

**Author's Note:**

> I based this story off the following prompt: It's about a famous musician and should include a pair of socks. Also use the sentence 'Is anyone there?' Bonus prompt: Your character has just met the love of his/her life.
> 
> the prompt is from: https://thestoryshack.com/tools/writing-prompt-generator/
> 
> Just needed something to distract myself with today.
> 
> also please note that I know next to ntohing about symphonies or orchestras so apologies for any errors on that front.

“What on earth are you talking about Mr. Fossil?” Howard asked.

He’d been called in for a meeting with the conductor of the Leeds Symphony Orchestra. 

“Well, our main patron, Bainbridge, he’s gettin’ sick a donation’ money all the time, so that you guys can play your loud twisty tubes and string shapes, and so he said that the symphony needs to start bringin’ in more people, otherwise he’s gonna switch to the playhouse down the road,” Mr. Fossil said. Though all of his statements may have had more impact if the conductor wasn’t rubbing his nipples the entire time he was talking. 

“And how are we going to get more people to come?” Howard asked. For a time, Howard had been quite a well known musician. He’d been first trumpet in several well respected orchestras, and he himself had been brought in to bolster the flagging numbers of the Leeds Pit (as it was affectionately--Howard hoped--known) but had had little impact on the numbers. The top attendance at the symphony last season had been 7. And 3 of the attendees had walked out once they realized that the “Boo Boo the Bouncing Dog” exhibition that was taking place in the concert hall wasn’t until the following week. Howard rather liked the little symphony, and he’d been glad to return to Leeds after being gone from his home for so long, so he was willing to try nearly anything to bring it the acclaim it--and he--so rightly deserved.

“We’re hirin’ a consultant,” Fossil said. 

“What kind of consultant?” Howard said, hoping it wasn’t one of those hotshots from the Dalston Symphony. 

“He’s like a fashion and lifestyle guy, knows how ta get on the cover of magazines, do hair, stuff like that,” Fossil said.

Of all the insipid--”Well he’s not doing my hair,” Howard said.

“Calm your tits Moon, you’ll do whatever he says, otherwise you’ll be playin’ your twisty tube all alone at home, if ya know what I mean,” Fossil said, making a vigorous jerking off gesture so that Howard could not help but know what he meant. 

“Is there anyone there?” a voice with a thick south london accent called. 

“In here!” Fossil called. 

The door to Fossil’s office opened and the most beautiful person--albeit with the stupidest hair--Howard had ever seen, walked through the door. 

“Alright?” the beautiful person said, and he smiled at Fossil and then turned to Howard. He stuck out his hand to shake, Howard hesitantly took it. “Vince Noir, Style Czar.”

Howard’s brain short circuited, torn in twain by his revulsion at the idea of letting this person anywhere near his hair or clothes, and his utter and instant infatuation with this self same person. And so he abruptly dropped Vince’s hand and left Fossil’s office.

Three Weeks Later:

“You’ll wear it and you’ll like it!” Vince shrieked. He’d never really been one to lose his cool, his nan had always told him that you caught more flies with honey than vinegar (though after much experimentation, Vince found that he caught flies best with bovril) but Howard Moon had gotten on his last nerve.

Howard Moon. The man drove him absolutely mad. Vince found himself thinking about him all the time, with his rollnecks and corduroys, his insistence on wearing birkenstocks with socks. His little beady chocolate button eyes, his deep melodious voice, his wry humor and strange turns of phrase that so mirrored Vince’s own. Sometimes Howard would make a joke and Vince would be the only person in the entire concert hall who laughed. 

But the man was also an arse, somehow both the most arrogant and insecure person he’d ever met. He also flatly refused to implement any of Vince’s suggestions. He wouldn’t wear the stuffed parrot, wouldn’t even try the eye patch, and he’d told Vince that sequins were “all well and good for stage magicians and camden dolly birds”, but he was a serious musician.

So Vince had spent all week trying to make Howard a costume that the man would like, it was a bit like a stuntman jumpsuit, with a cape. It wasn’t too tight, it wasn’t revealing, it had minimal sparkle. But Howard still wouldn’t wear it, and that is when Vince flew off the handle. 

He launched the blue jumpsuit he’d spent all night sewing at Howard’s head. The tall trumpet player--clearly not a sportsman no matter what he said--failed to block the flying fabric and it wrapped around his head like a face hugger from  _ Alien _ . 

Howard staggered around the stage, wrestling with the jumpsuit until he was finally able to remove it. The rest of the orchestra had gone home long ago, as they had dutifully accepted Vince’s creations and promised to wear them to the performance--which Vince had been hyping via not only the usual methods of fliers and posters and social media but also with carrier pigeons, smoke signals, flag code, and short band radio waves--the following evening. But not Howard. Of course, not Howard. 

“I should file an assault charge,” Howard said.

“Well, what about you assaultin’ my eyes every day?” Vince asked. “I’ve got news for ya Howard, it’s not the 1800’s anymore, they’ve invented new colors. Ya don’t ‘ave to wear olive, orange, and brown no more, there’s a whole spectrum.”

“There is nothing wrong with brown!” Howard yelled. The color had been a major source of conflict between the two men for weeks. Vince had said there was absolutely no place for brown within his “vision” and Howard had said he’d better get his vision checked. “It’s a perfectly lovely color. Why do you insist on all of this outlandish nonsense?”

“I worked for 12 hours on that outlandish nonsense!” Vince said. “I made it for you! I thought you was gonna like it, you said you liked Evil Knievel too, so I thought--” Vince cut himself off. 

Howard softened a bit, it had been one of the few conversations he and Vince had had that hadn’t descended into a childish screaming match or slap fight. He hadn’t expected Vince to remember.

“Whatever, doesn’t matter what I thought,” Vince said. “I got hired to fix this symphony’s look and get arses in seats and that is exactly what I’m going to do. Get your coat. We’re goin’ to your house.

“What? Why?” Howard sputtered.all of his spare time recently had been taken up by rehearsals and protracted arguments with Vince after rehearsals, that he hadn’t had time to tidy the flat in a week. It was an absolute pig sty. 

“Cos I’m goin’ through your wardrobe until I find somethin’,  _ anythin’,  _ I can work with,” Vince said. He grabbed his coat--the one it looked like he had slaughtered Elmo to procure--off the back of his chair and slung it over one shoulder, looking effortlessly chic. 

Howard lived very close to the concert hall and so within minutes they were at the front door to Howard’s flat. 

“Can you wait a few moments? I just want to tidy a bit,” Howard said. He unlocked the door but blocked the entrance with his large frame. 

“Get stuffed, I’m not standin’ around in the hallway while you hoover,” Vince said as he shouldered past Howard.

Howard followed him anxiously, “it’s not up to my usual standard, please just ignore the mess--”

“What mess?” Vince demanded. He’d never seen a flat so clean. The hoover lines in the carpet were perfectly parallel. Every little thing was in its little place. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the entire flat nor a single dish in the sink. The only thing that could in any way be construed as a “mess” was a single, ridiculously large sock--an item Vince knew to be a trumpet sock--draped over the back of the couch. 

“Why don’t you bring your trumpet in the sock anymore?” Vince asked. He’d been rather charmed when he’d seen how Howard transported his instrument from the concert hall back to his home and had been a bit disappointed when Howard stopped bringing it and instead brought his trumpet in a standard black hard case. 

Howard did not want to say that the reason he had retired the trumpet sock was due to Vince bursting into gales of laughter upon first seeing it. So instead he opted for, “haven’t had a day to do laundry.”

Vnce wandered around the small flat. “So this is where Howard Moon lives.” He eyed a painting of a cubist man playing a trumpet. “Wow.” Vince had always gotten a bit of a thrill out of seeing where other people lived. It was like seeing into their souls. You could tell a lot about a person by their home. And seeing into the home of someone you maybe had a bit of a crush on--when they weren’t driving you mad--well, that doubled the thrill. 

Howard watched as Vince circled the little flat. He had to resist the urge to tell Vince “don’t touch that” as Vince picked up an old fashioned compass from the mantel. He memorized every place Vince’s black nail polished hands touched, and imagined running his own hands over those spots. The idea of touching the hands themselves was entirely too much. 

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” Vince said, his eyes seductively half-lidded, though that may have been Howard’s imagination.

“What? Yes. Of course,” Howard said. 

Vince generally wouldn’t have been able to resist smirking at the blush rising on Howard’s face, but since he could feel his own cheeks getting red, he wisely left it alone. 

As Vince looked through Howard’s clothes, they talked. Topics ranging from proper trumpet maintenance to the best kind of glitter for daily wear. And Howard found himself charmed by Vince’s innate optimism.and Vince found Howard’s intelligence to be very exciting and quite sexy. 

After two hours of digging through a sea of beige and orange with a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves, Vince finally came up for air. He dramatically threw himself on Howard’s bed, his arm brushing Howard’s leg and giving both of them quite a jolt. “It’s hopeless. There ain't one thing in here even close to what I’m going for.” 

Howard had been sitting on his bed, staying out of the way while Vince worked. “Well, what are you going for?” It was strange, in all the time they’d spent together arguing over Vince’s “vision”, Howard had never once asked what Vince’s vision actually was. 

“Well, I basically thought that orchestra musicians, they’re kind of rebels right? Outsiders. Don’t really care what other people think, all about pursuing their passions and hang the rest. So I thought I’d dress everyone up as famous rebels right? Like Lucrecia on triangle, got her dressed as James Dean. And Lars on piccolo as David Lee Roth. And I thought I was gonna do you up as a pirate, but then you didn’t like that so I thought maybe you could be like Mozart--the original punk musician. But you didn’t want to wear the wig, and we started talking about Evel Knievel, and I thought that’d be perfect, he even rebels against gravity, but then you didn’t like that either and--”

“I did like it,” Howard said abruptly.

“Wot?” 

“I did like the suit, but I thought you were trying to dress me up to distract from the music,” Howard said. “I was never going to admit to liking anything you did.” Howard had been convinced that this little trendie was going to waltz in and take over his beloved orchestra, ruin what made it special. But it seemed that vince had no interest in detracting from the music. He only wanted to enhance it. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an arse.”

“So you’ll wear the suit?” Vince asked. 

“Yes, I’ll wear the suit,” Howard said.

“Great!” Vince beamed at him and then lunged forward and kissed him. 

When Vince pulled back, Howard stared at him in shock. “What did you do that for?” 

Vince shrugged. “Cos I wanted to.”

Howard leaned forward and kissed Vince.

Vince bit on his lip and looked up at Howard shyly. “And what did you do that for?”

Howard smoothed back a piece of Vince’s hair. “Because I wanted to.” 

The following night the orchestra played to a record shattering 17 people for its season premier. Bainbridge and Fossil declared it a complete success and hired Vince on for the rest of the season. 

After the show, Vince came up behind Howard and hugged him. He had to stand on his tiptoes, even though he was wearing heels, to be able to reach Howard’s ear and murmur, “you look well fit in that jumpsuit.”

Howard smiled his wolfish grin, the one Vince had become fairly well acquainted with the previous night, whirled around and brought Vince in for a kiss. 

“I owe it all to Vince Noir, Style Czar.”

Vince fiddled with Howard’s hair a bit. “Now if we could just--”

“Nope,” Howard said. “You’re not touchin’ my hair.”

“I’m touchin’ it right now,” Vince pointed out. 

“I said what I said, I’ll not be having some camden town dolly bird muckin about with--”

Vince cut Howard off with a kiss. There would be plenty of time to talk Howard into it later. More flies with honey than vinegar.


End file.
